Cause and Effect: Whatever it Takes
by Zteif
Summary: When Marik's life is put in danger one cold night, Bakura does all he can to save him, and prove once and for all that he is capable of love. Really long one shot, suicide/rape/refs to sex/understandable OOCness. MxB, serious writing, more descrip inside
1. Silber Street

_**Hey homies. So, this is a much more serious piece. Take it with a grain of salt-- it's from a much bigger OC universe that my friend and I rp occassionally. Yep, I'm that asshole who rp's YuGiOh characters after the age of 15. 8DDD I'm fucking RAD. **_

_**Anyway, quick notes: ~There will be OOCness. Not too much, and all of it I believe is acceptable and probable ~Flaming is gay, and so are you if you do it. Just be nice about it, it's not that hard ~This is more of a character development than anything else; I'm practicing ~Inspired off of the 100 themes challenge list floating around the Interwebs ~ R and R, even if you hate it. Just let me know.**_

36. Precious treasure

Marik headed towards the automatic doors of the grocery store, a bag of goods dangling from his forearm. With a dutiful sigh, he zipped his winter jacket up to his chin and threw his scarf around his neck twice. With gloves already on, he pushed his hands deep into his pockets and braced himself for the biting cold. The desert native stepped out into the dark city streets, blinking as the wind blew his bangs into his eyes.

"Fucking winter," he grumbled to himself, taking a left for home. The neon lights of the stores around him reflected crazily in the puddles below his feet. Wet leaves hurled themselves through the air, plastering onto whatever they struck. Marik shook one off his shoe in utter annoyance when he noticed that fat, sporadic snowflakes had begun to fall. His lip twitched in disdain, but he simply continued on, avoiding puddles gracefully. He noted without much surprise that very few other people were out. A single man was standing at a bus depot, three college aged girls were walking past him in the other direction, and two bundled figures were smoking outside a restaurant front. Weather, and the fact that it was almost 11 o'clock at night, explained this scarcity of humanity, even though it was the city. He normally would never stand to live in a place where temperatures could get so low, let alone somewhere where it could SNOW. But, this is where Bakura had picked, and he would sacrifice his wants for the man. Besides, Bakura had methods of helping him warm up, and this little thought made Marik smile. He knew that the Thief King was at home, waiting for him. The two would be alone, a rare treat, and Marik felt a shiver race down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

Marik fingered the phone in his pocket, thinking about giving Bakura a quick ring just to let him know he was on his way home. Maybe give him a chance to prepare, let him plan what he wanted to do with him… Marik smiled devilishly to himself, and decided it was a very, very good idea. With that, he pulled out the device and quickly dialed his boyfriends number.-

Bakura was sitting at home on the couch, cross legged and scribbling notes onto a legal pad. A French book was flipped open in front of him, listing derivatives. Being English, he already had an intense, inbred dislike for the French, and he was finding it harder and harder to give a shit about the sentences in his homework. He had made the mistake of writing his notes in pen, and there were several dark, blocked out areas. The whitenette wondered if he was even going to be able to understand the notes later when he went back and read them. With a frustrated sigh, he realized he had answered the same question twice, right next to one another. Taking it as a sign he was finished for the evening, he tossed the pen and paper onto the coffee table. He slouched down into the cushions and flipped the cover of the book shut with a well aimed kick. He remained sedentary there for several minutes, letting his mind clear itself. As it did, the tasty thought of his boyfriend rose to the surface. A small smirk spread over his lips, revealing the points of his sharp canine teeth. The apartment was empty, and he knew that Marik was well aware of this. He knew Marik would be home soon, and that he'd be cold from the walk. He also knew that Marik would want to be warmed up, and boy, did he have several scintillating ideas on how to do it.

Almost as if on cue, his pocket vibrated hard, sending a violent shiver across his pelvis. With a quiet groan that turned into a throaty laugh, he withdrew it. The accompanying grin broadened when he saw 'Marik' flash brightly across the caller ID screen. Relaxing back into the couch once more, he flipped open the phone and said,

"Well well well, it appears all I have to do it think about you now and I shall receive."

On the other end of the line, Marik laughed happily, the sound crackled due to the wind around him.

"Hello to you too, Bakura. Was I really on your mind?" Marik asked suggestively, and Bakura could tell he was smiling.

"You were indeed. I'm sitting all alone in this bloody apartment, with nothing to tame my thoughts. They're running absolutely WILD…" Bakura growled.

"Oh, that sounds like quite a problem. Perhaps I could help you tame them when I get back… Which is why I'm calling," Marik crooned in response. Bakura let his eyes shut as he pleasantly fantasized about the near future.

"Tell me you're on your way, please," the tomb robber said lowly, eagerness coloring his tone.

Marik let out a sultry laugh, turning it into a soft moan at the end. Bakura felt himself stiffen; he knew Marik was biting his lower lip through a smile, a look that drove him insane with desire.

"I'm at Silber Street, I'll be home in 10 minutes…. I hope it's warm, because I'm freezing, Bakura…" Marik breathed into the phone. Bakura's hand balled up in his lap, and he tipped his head back, trying to calm his now excited body.

"I'll have no problem warming you up, Marik," the whitenette assured him huskily.

"Mmm, I hope not. May take several hours to get the feeling back to every part of me…" came the hushed reply.

"Walk faster," Bakura urged, now sitting forward, running his hand through his hair feverishly. His foot tapped with anticipation, and it was all he could do to keep himself sitting still.

Marik laughed again, knowing he was pushing his boyfriends buttons.

"Calm down Bakura! I'll be there soo-" Marik began. Bakura, deep in his own fantasy world, came back a little when the Egyptian on the other end didn't finish his sentence.

"Marik?" he asked, puzzled. He listened, and heard Marik yell something sharply.

"S- Sorry. Just some assholes cat calling me," Marik assured him, bringing the phone back to his mouth.

"Oh. Everything ok?" Bakura pushed, not entirely concerned.

"Yeah, they looked drunk. You know," came the slightly forced casual response.

"Ok…" the tomb robber said, settling back down. But just as he was dismissing the incident, he heard Marik gasp and yell again, this time clearly-

"ASSHOLE! Back off!"

Bakura instantly sat bolt upright, previous excitement draining away.

"Marik!?" he asked, panicked. He looked down at the floor, nerves stretching taught as a silence punctuated by inarticulate yelling wound out on the other end of the line. His anticipation funneled into adrenaline, the two emotions swirling together to become one hypersensitive feeling.

"MARIK!" Bakura yelled, now jumping up from his spot, eyes wide with fear. His breathing became shallow, and his free hand began shaking by his side. He could hear Marik's voice through the wind, but he could also hear several others, each sounding threatening.

"MARIK, WHAT'S GOING ON?!" he yelled, voice echoing off the walls around him. Then, he heard Marik scream. There was a rustling of fabric being scratched over the receiver and then the rushing of wind. A loud, dull cracking shot through the phone connection, and instantly, Bakura knew it had been thrown to the ground. Suddenly, Marik screamed,

"BAKURA! BAKUR-"

Then, nothing that could be understood, followed by several deep laughs and rowdy shouting.

The spirit was frozen in that moment of time, not breathing, heart not beating. His only thought was of Marik, and finding him. The shock that had rooted him to the spot broke like ice off of an eve, and suddenly he was sprinting through the apartment. With deftness never afforded to him under normal circumstances, he got on his shoes, slipped into his jacket and pocketed his phone in one fluid motion. He then ripped open the nearest end table drawer and grabbed his butterfly knife: his seven inch one. He silently thanked his decision to hide weapons all over the apartment, despite Marik's demands that he not. He flitted to the door, hearing his keys jangle in his pocket. With the one track mind of a professional killer, he yanked open the door and slammed it as he set off at a run, taking the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator.-

"Mmm, I hope not. It may take several hours to get the feeling back to every part of me…" Marik whispered into the phone. He was enjoying this word play with Bakura. Getting him excited for his return would be beneficial to both of them.

"Walk faster," was Bakura's strained reply. Marik couldn't help but burst into laughter at his partners eagerness. He swayed a little as he walked, alight with happiness.

As he took a deep breath to calm himself, he passed by the mouth of a dead end side street that led to a loading bay. A large dumpster and cans of garbage were normally the only things inhabiting the alley, so Marik didn't even cast it a glance. But tonight, several whooping, hollering men were lurking there as well. They had been drinking for most of the evening, and blowing off steam by rough housing each other. Each man was now in a dangerous state of mind, halfway between blind drunkenness and testosterone fueled highs. They were looking for a good time, for some way to alleviate their aggression. Each one had a history of crime, and two of the four men had toked up earlier that night, rendering them incapable of making good decisions. And unfortunately, one of them happened to spot Marik as he passed, zeroing in on his laughter. He stopped punching at his buddy and instead pointed enthusiastically after the Egyptian, who was oblivious to the attention. His buddies looked in the direction of the point and became equally excited. After several seconds of conspiring in whispers, the group of four drunken men headed out of the side street and casually, silently fell into step behind Marik.

Marik was still laughing, his steps light with anticipation.

"Calm down Bakura! I'll be there soo-" the blonde began when he heard from behind him-

"Hey baby! Hey baby, where you goin'? You all alone tonight honey?"

Marik didn't break stride, turning at the hip to answer. He lowered the phone a little from his mouth, a sneer curling over his lips.

"Fuck you, get lost," he sniped. He then flicked his hair over his shoulder and sped up, ignoring the men who were now laughing.

"Marik?" came the slightly concerned voice on the other end of the line.

"Aw, come on babe! Can't you juss say hi? We juss' wanna say hi! Come on honey-"

"S-Sorry. Just some assholes cat calling me," he explained, trying to sound calm. But now he could hear the men behind him, their footsteps and low laughs sounding as if they were getting closer rather than farther. He refused to look, holding up his head higher, determined that nothing should happen.

"Oh. Everything ok?" Bakura asked. Marik heard the worry seeping over the connection.

"Yeah, they look drunk. You know," the Egyptian said evenly, but now he was feeling panicky. The men behind him were whispering to each other, and it sounded as if they were egging one another on. Marik swallowed hard and broke into a light trot.

"Ok…" was Bakura's unconvinced reply. Marik opened his mouth to say he was sure he'd be fine, when someone grabbed his arm, forcing him to turn and stumble slightly. He gasped in fright, drawing back his arm as if burned. With the wild eyes of a trapped animal, he screamed,

"ASSHOLE! Back off!"

The man who had grabbed his arm was tall and heavily jacketed, and Marik could see only his bleary eyes between his collar and hat brim. Marik staggered back from him, and with horror, noticed the entire group was encroaching upon him.

"Leave me alone!" he yelled, trying to sound confident. But his last word cracked, and it was in that millisecond, he knew he was done for. He panicked, and his mind began to lose its ability to focus. His heart leapt from the starting gate, galloping away at top speed. Two men to his left pulled farther off to the side and picked up a trot, easily and effectively surrounding him. Marik spun in place, feat griping him so badly he almost couldn't breathe. His eyes flickered from each man with despair, and he was mouthing 'No, no no' without ever realizing it. The man who had taken the first grab at him pulled up his pants by the belt loops, laughing loudly with his cohorts. He sort of sidled towards the terrified blonde, who completely forgot in his fear that he was still holding a live line with Bakura. He didn't hear his boyfriend yell his name twice.

"Come on sugar, no need to get upset! We nice fellas juss thought you looked kinda cold, thass all… Thought we could, ya know, warm ya up, is all…" the man crooned as he came closer. Marik's knees had begun to shake, and he slowly backed away from the shadowed man, barely keeping his balance.

"Yeah, lets go sweetheart, you look like you could use some lovin'," one of the drunks behind him added, so close Marik yelped. He wheeled around on him and jumped a little to the side, trying to stay an arm's length away from him.

"G-get away from me!" Marik pressed weakly, but even to his own ears he sounded hopeless.

"No need to be scared, suga', " the shadowed man said lowly, and each of his counterparts laughed fiendishly. One of the men to Mariks right actually licked his lips as they tightened their circle around him.

"S-s-stop it," Marik practically begged, holding out his arm protectively as the first man to grab him came within striking distance. With speed the Egyptian didn't expect, the man lashed out, grabbing onto the bag of groceries hanging off his forearm. Marik screamed, and drew back, breaking into a run. The bags thin plastic handles easily ripped in half, sending it and its contents down onto the wet pavement. Cans clanked unceremoniously, rolling in all directions as the four men instantly gave pursuit. Marik hadn't gotten more than three steps though when one of the men latched onto his wrist. Marik's head snapped sideways as the man anchored himself, forcing the blondes momentum to go on without him. He staggered in the grip, turning to pull himself away. His mind was being tortuously kicked in so many directions, he couldn't form one thought for longer than half a second. All he knew was that the world around him was seemingly growing thinner.

"NO! NO, GET OFF ME!" he screeched, looking around desperately to see if anyone was near to help him. Blackness started to saturate the corners of his eyes, and when the man holding him spoke again, he seemed to be coming from farther away than just an arms reach. Not a single other human being besides the five of them was within eye sight. Not a solitary car was approaching from either direction. As another pair of arms locked around his waist, Marik began to see two of everything, and time began to slow down. Someone ripped the phone out of his hand, and he watched it slam into the ground, a piece of the corner chipping off under the impact. The arms now winding around his body began to drag him away from the phone, and as they did, Marik could hear echoing from inside his own head. Each breath was resoundingly loud, and he felt the erratic banging of his heart all the way through his frame. Suddenly, the air in front of him flickered, changing color. The present stretched thinner and thinner, becoming gauzelike and initiating the feeling of extreme vertigo. And then he sank into his mind completely, the tie between the current and past completely severed. He was 10 years old again, and being dragged down the dimly lit halls of his underground prison. He was screaming, crying, begging for help. He was pulled past his sister and brother, their heads bowed and tongues unresponsive as he pleaded for them to save him, oh please, Sister, Brother, don't let them do this to me, stop them, please!

The arms holding his little body were so much bigger than him, so much stronger. He had no chance, no chance in Heaven and Earth of getting away. Finally, he was pinned down to the alter table, pressed flat onto his stomach, tears streaming down his smooth face. He struggled with his captors, flailing his legs until they too were forced into submission. He was looking around him, seeking anything, anyone who would come to his aid. His violet eyes fell upon his father, standing stonily in the corner.

Father, help me!, he cried. Father please, PLEASE! Don't let them do this! Don't make me do this Father! I love you, please Father- I love you, no, don't, Father- HELP ME! He screamed. His father only stared at him with the eyes of a snake. Dead and black, incapable of feeling anything. Marik screamed and screamed, for help, from pain, it didn't matter; the knife and the frosty eye of his father hurt equally.

As his mind bent inward upon itself, voices from the present began to penetrate their way in. Hands were all over him, pulling, tugging, eagerly seeking to explore their new pray. Marik's memory was suddenly punched through when he heard one of the men whoop right in his ear, declaring,

"SHIT! This mutha fucka's a MAN! It's a fucking MAN! Fucking hell, Dom, it's a fucking FAGGIT!"

The word sliced it's way into Marik's heart, hurling his mind out of its dizzying regress and back into the frozen present. His eyes had slid shut, and they fluttered back open. He was now about 15 feet from where they had grabbed him, and his eyes locked onto the phone laying upon the asphalt. A mere three seconds or so must have passed, but to the captive boy, he felt as though his entire life had been replayed. Through the swirling decay of his thoughts, one name seared across his vision, lighting up his entire soul and enabling him to suck in one long, deep breath. He screamed it as loud as he possibly could, giving up much of his fleeting strength to do it-

"BAKURA! BAKUR-"

A hand smacked him across the face, intensified by the frigid air. It stung bitterly, driving the blonde away from consciousness. All the force of Marik's scream was knocked out, and all around him, his captors began laughing.

"Ain't nobody gonna save you now, pretty boy," a rough voice assured him in his ear. Marik let out a weak moan in response, eyes unable to focus on the voices initiator. He tried to curl in on himself, unsure if Bakura had even heard him. Then he was being pulled again, shuffled down to the alley where the creatures attacking him had first spotted their target.

His heels dragged, for he couldn't seem to find any strength to carry himself. He was only aware of what he felt, and even that was quickly numbing. Unseen arms had bound up his hands behind him, and there were roaming fingers, brands of ice, raking over his skin. Hands went up his shirt, pinching and bruising. Others ripped at his pants, forcing their way in, kneading and clawing, feverishly looking for something; Marik wasn't quite sure what. He couldn't remember anything anymore. His name became inconsequential, his history, his future. The vivid flashback from only moments before had faded out of mind, sponged up by blackness. The only thing he could think of was Bakura. It beat in time with the pulse in his neck, the only thing assuring him he wasn't already dead.

Suddenly, there was something warm behind his ear, and he was jerked up farther, not knowing he was slipping. Only his captors were holding him upright at this point, and the warmth was a tongue, taste testing its new candy. Marik gasped as his hips were violently yanked forward, forcing unimaginably hot contact with the unwelcome hand down his front. Voices were whispering, laughing, mocking him. They were pressing in on all sides, shoving themselves into his ear, raping his mind as well as his skin. Bakura, I need your help, I hope to God you heard me-

"Stop…" he breathed between pants. He heard the laughter in response, the cooing tones of a rebuttal, and felt a sharp pain that then knifed its way up his side. He had been punched hard in the ribs, and any air that had been circulating in him was gone. He folded in the grasps of his captives, eyes watering as his mouth hung open, seeking the air just beyond it. After an agonizing life time, air did flow again, and the men holding him wasted no time initiating a new form of torture. The bronze boy was forcefully drawn into a standing position, welded tightly front to back with one of the men. His chin was grabbed and squeezed, forcing his mouth open. A bottle clicked against his tooth as the neck was forced in. Marik tried to shake his head, but was held still, and as the bottle neck slide further in, a familiarly hot liquid spread over his tongue and down his throat. The bottle was pulled out suddenly, leaving him to try and swallow the contents.

Vodka. They were force feeding him vodka. He coughed and wretched violently as the burning coated his already dry throat. He groaned as cold air rushed down into his lungs, only serving to accentuate the pain. The liquid ran over the corners of his mouth, winding icy trails long his bare neck. More voices, more whispering, more groping, endlessly ransacking his body. Time became irrelevant, the motions of the world ceased to make sense. Then he was being pushed to the ground, arms still tied up in someone's vice grip. Marik was willing himself towards unconsciousness, thinking still only of Bakura, how he needed him, how nothing in the world would ever compare to him, oh please God, anyone, let him have heard me, please let him find me, I need him, I need him right now-

Someone pulled his hair, tipping his head back, opening his mouth with a thick, salty finger. Bakura please, I need Bakura, anyone out there, please, help me-

There was a metallic scratching sounds, and Marik knew, he just knew, it was a zipper being undone, and now the tears were real, he bit at the finger in his mouth with the last of his fading consciousness to keep himself from screaming for them. He would give them nothing extra, no added satisfaction. He was pushing his limit to the brink, forcing himself to reach for the black. He wanted to be gone, away from what was happening. He wanted to be dead, to be unable to feel. Bakura, please, I'm sorry, but I won't let them take me, I can't do this again, the first time almost killed me, you are the only one I love, but I can't do it, I just can't, I won't, forgive me, but I'd rather DIE-

Bakura had never run so fast in any of his lives. Each snowflake that flitted into his face stung, as if to keep him awake and alert. He was plenty of both.

He swerved around puddles and leapt them if he couldn't, skirted the few people he did happen to pass on the sidewalks and flew over the slushy pavement just as if it were bone dry. Each footfall echoed off the last and next, turning into one streaming sound that kept him focused. Silber Street, Silber Street, he said he was at Silber Street.

"_I'll be home in 10 minutes-" _

"_Oh. Everything ok?..."_

"_Yeah, they look drunk. You know-…"_

How could something go so grotesquely wrong so quickly? The Thief King didn't let his mind become too bound up in the thought. His consciousness was hysterical with thoughts of Marik, and each passing second in his flight yielded bloodier and bloodier thoughts. His heart was at his throat, assuring his rationalistic brain that Marik would be okay, that he'd be in time to rescue him. He would be able to save him, to protect him like he promised he would. Bakura would wrap his arms around him, assure him he'd never be hurt again, that he was here and he loved him, that he was the only thing that mattered, and the only thing that would EVER matter…

Then he would cease to exist for a time, allowing the evil that wrested with him constantly to reign free. He'd slit all of their throats, whoever it was who made the unfortunate mistake of trying to steal his treasure. The only thing in the world he admittedly cared about, the only human being he ever shared a bond with, the only living mortal who he actually wanted to say 'I love you' to and MEAN it, and some fucking cock sucking assholes thought they were going to take him away? The whitenette thought not. Marik belonged to HIM, and him alone, and no one was to ever touch him if he didn't want it. None but he was allowed access to Marik, and woe be him who thought otherwise. He would strangle one of them, whichever one had gotten the farthest in raping his treasure by the time Bakura had found them. He would kneel on their throat, watch their face turn that ruddy red, maybe be lucky enough to see a vessel rupture, spilling blood into their God forsaken eye. He would slit one of their throats upward, sinking the blade in at the crux of the jugular and the underside of the jaw, allow himself the pleasure of their warm blood running over his hand. He would slit another's horizontally, and lean over him, telling him to scream, scream for me you asshole, oh, you can't, because I've cut your motherfucking throat, how dare you touch him, how dare you try and hurt him, you're lucky he's still alive, because if you had killed him, I would've spun out your torture for years and YEARS, and you'd have begged me to kill you, because it would've ended your miserable shit of a life-

Bakura rounded another corner and pulled up, eyes darting to the sign above him.

Silber Street.

The intense rush of relief at having made it there so quickly faded away almost instantaneously as he looked up the empty sidewalk. The spirits dark eyes caught sight of several things that made his heart stop, his mind shirk away and his blood cool. A split open bag of groceries littered a 5 foot radius not more than twenty feet from where he stood, and Bakura could easily pick out Marik's hair conditioner, despite the darkness. In that dragging moment, he could even read the label, and see the bright orange rectangle of a price tag reading '14.99'. Bakura took a numb breath, feeling pressure squeezing his temples. Not far from the tell tale bottle was Marik's cell phone, the screen cracked and a corner chipped away. It was flashing idiotically, as if trying to tell its owner to 'hang up, stupid, no-one's on the other end!'. Except it's owner was not there- he was being ravaged somewhere, being forced to submit himself to the worst defilement possible. Something in the whitenettes lower body shifted, and the full gravity of the world sunk into his legs, drawing him down. A sharp exhale shot from his lips, and anger, the likes of which he never could recall feeling, erupted inside of him. He took one step forward and staggered. The insanity of hatred he felt now was terrifying, unbelievably sharp and acrid. He inhaled once again, eyes trained unrelentingly on the phone laying on the pavement. He was slipping, back into what he used to be, back into who he once walked the Earth as. And he welcomed it. Everything fell easily back into place, fitting into the hollows and crooks inside his soul that had lain dormant since he'd found kinship with Marik. It filled him up slowly, and soon there was no spot uncoated with black hatred. All of this happened quickly, while the world waited, and when he again tried to walk up the street again, his gait was sure, steady and purposeful. Gone were the tremors of anxiety, trepidations and concern. He was feral, raw, and his only thought was of finding Marik. Anyone who had touched him had no chance of survival now.

The senses that accompanied such a state of being caused the spirit to slow himself, to listen to the world around him. Patience was rewarded. He lifted his obsidian eyes to the street before him, thinking that whoever had grabbed Marik couldn't have gotten far. His eyes drifted, drifted over the alleys yawning onto the street, drifted to the many doors studding the buildings facing him. The heavy snowfall didn't even register in his vision; they were useless, couldn't tell him anything and therefore dismissed. Then he heard it; just a small sound, a low laugh. It mixed with the wind fluttering past him, but to him, it was clear, definitive, and very very close. The spirit stalked forward, head lowered, past the phone, past the groceries, towards the noise. As he approached the gaping, dark alley from which he heard the laugh, more furtive whispers and chuckling reached him. He didn't even need his old heightened senses to know that these were the sounds he was looking for. Bakura rounded the corner of the alley, silent as a shadow, slipping his hand into his jacket pocket. He withdrew his knife and stopped, standing with the weapon unopened at his side. Staring into the darkness, he could see six figures, and immediately he identified Marik. He was being held from behind, kneeling, his face tipped upward. From Bakura's quick observation, he didn't appear to be conscious; the man unzipping his pants in front of him was holding his chin up, and his eyes were shut. The spirits eyes flashed briefly at the situation, at the thought of what the man was about to do to HIS Marik. The animosity inside him forced a low growl out of his throat, and even his voice was the old voice, the old tone and pitch readily reestablishing itself. The small sound was all it took to capture the men's attention; they all stopped moving, their faces sliding from their drunken grins into suspicious lines. Bakura wasn't looking at them though. He couldn't get away from Marik, couldn't make himself look elsewhere. It didn't matter that he'd fallen back into his old self- the Egyptian was the only thing that mattered, still the only person who held the spirit from rioting off into his own psychosis. As the whitenette looked at Marik, his head cocked to the side just a fraction, and he shouted in his head, firmly-

'Marik'.

Then, aloud,

"Let go of him,"

The men simply stared, and eventually they looked around to one another, sharing glances that read 'is he crazy?'. None yet spoke however; something about the singular man before them was wrong, and although they couldn't have put it into words, their instincts (drunk or otherwise) could feel it. Bakura took his time searing each of the men with his gaze, despite knowing they couldn't see his eyes. Again in his mind, he yelled for Marik. This time, the blonde stirred dazedly, his eyes attempting to open. Bakura's overtaken heart stirred regardless of its dark eclipse.

"Marik," he said lowly, again fixating upon his face, hoping in a far away part of his mind that the Egyptian would recognize his voice.

He did. Marik's eyes shot open, and the fierce look of hope welling in them pushed Bakura over the edge. His mouth dropped open just a fraction, jaw taught, his teeth showing over his lower lip. His lover held his gaze for a good solid five seconds, and then he whispered,

"Bakura,"

He went limp again in his captors arms, and that was the end of Bakura's awareness for a time-

_**Note: A butterfly knife is a brand of pocket knife that swings open on both ends, life butterfly wings. It slides together to form one long blade. Look it up. 8D**_


	2. Gone

_**Ohh ho ho, chapter TWO! Again, a more experimental piece. Lots of flavor in this one. And pardon that Marik is so needy-- it happens sometimes when I write him. Sorry for making you get raped, bb!! (lol, apologizing to characters. Again, I'm werd)**_

Please Bakura, please- I need your help, I love you so much, please have heard me, I'm here, I'll wait as long as I can, they're going to rape me- I can't do it again, Bakura please HELP ME! DON'T LET THIS HAPPEN AGAIN, I-I WON'T, I WON'T DO IT, I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU PLEASE- PLEASE- Marik thought, believing honestly that these may be the last thoughts of his life.

-There was a pause. The hands stopped, the voices stopped, the sounds of the world stopped. He would've thought he'd made it into the safe recesses of his own head had he not been able to feel the chill of the damp air gnawing at his bare skin. And then, lancing its way through the dimming reality around him, came the voice of Darkness himself, a voice he should've hated. A voice that should've repelled him, made him snarl in anger, one that he should've distrusted, maybe even feared. But it wasn't so: it was so sweet, the most blisteringly wonderful thing he had ever heard, and he couldn't help himself from jolting, eyes snapping open. In that instant, his violet eyes became brutally focused, his pupils dilating into sharp points. Nothing had ever looked so sharp, so vibrant, so agonizingly clear. Each flake of now thickly falling snow was a white marvel, twirling slowly before him. Every crack in the brick work around them was pronounced, every swirl of misty breath from his captors was in relief. Each flickering light from the city street beyond the alley was as magnificent as a fire works display.

At the mouth of the alley stood Bakura, haloed in brilliant light. And although his face was covered in impenetrable shadow, Marik knew he was looking right at him, right into his eyes. He had been so prepared for death, so ready to willingly give himself to the vestiges of shadow, that he was completely overwhelmed by the intense sensation of hope.

"Bakura," he whispered, and that was all he had left in him. He slipped back into the veiled protection of his unconscious, barely awake at all.-

The spirit's eyes glazed, nerves, bones and muscles overruling any rationality. He gracefully flicked his wrist, manipulating his fingers to open the knife in his hand. With intensely satisfying clicks, the weapon locked into its prepared position, and the spirit relished in how perfectly it fit into his hand. He approached the men with wide strides, each footfall planned and executed in a militaryesque fashion. Marik's captors all rose up at the same time, the man holding the Egyptian laying him down in the scant layer of snow. They were sharing low chuckles of indignation and surprise at Bakura's audacity. The one who had been unzipping his pants to use Marik first stepped forward, holding out his hand in a casual gesture.

"'Eh man, what the fucks wrong witchu? Gettchur own play toy," he said, smiling crookedly, still not taking the situation seriously. He was confident in his height and weight, and in the number of his crew. The man coming towards him was shorter, though not by much, but obviously not heavily muscled. His hair was long, like a woman's, and his face was thick in shadow, hiding his eyes. Did he know what he was getting himself into? Couldn't he see that he was disadvantaged? There were FIVE of them, for Christ sake, and each was bigger than him. He may have a knife, but in reality, what the hell could he really accomplish with it? Take a stab at them once, maybe twice, before they all got a hand on him- they'd fuck him up bad. The man had roughly two seconds to think all of this, still smiling assuredly to himself. His buddies murmured words of agreement, backing up their leader. Bakura kept coming though, and the man squared himself up, saying

"Come on man, this one's ours. Get the fuck outta here-"

That was when Bakura reached striking distance. With a small growl, the spirit threw out his arm, latching it upon the mans shoulder. The man had no time to react as he was violently pulled forward. Bakura didn't even look down at him as he sunk the knife hilt deep into his chest. He was staring instead over the mans bent frame, eyeing the companion who had been holding Marik.

"You're next," he said in a dead pan, pushing the gurgling man off the sharp steel and onto the ground. Bakura made sure not administer an instantaneously lethal blow just yet; he had other plans for him. Instead, he allowed the man to curl up, unintelligible noises drooling from his mouth.

The four remaining men immediately dropped face, stepping back in horror. Their terrified gazes flicked between their fallen leader and the white haired man looming over him.

"What the fuck man, what the fuck-" one of them began shakily, stumbling back awkwardly as Bakura moved towards them again.

The spirit bridged that gap to his next stunned victim in a second, and the man did nothing but hold up his arms in defense. The pitiful gesture did nothing as Bakura ripped his arms down and fluidly shafted the knife into the base of his neck. He pulled the knife down a bit, forcing his victim to bend so they were eye to eye. He stared into the drunks eyes with the cold blooded aloofness of a predator. The man stared back, seemingly unaware of what had just happened to him, his throat clicking loudly as he tried to swallow, tried to breath. Hot blood ran in furrows down the knife and into Bakura's sleeve, soaking into his jacket. Bakura grew sick of the pathetic, glazing look in his victims eye and withdrew his weapon, letting the man fall to his knees before him. With a bird like twitch, he snapped his attention to the three other men, deliberating over who was next. The man who had spoken a moment ago tripped over his own feet as he was backing up, and didn't hold back a shrill scream as Bakura came for him next. The other two men also screamed, and split, running past Bakura, giving him a wide birth. They completely abandoned their companion, who shuffled across the ground, eyes wide and alight with utter, desolate despair.

"N-n-no man, d-don't do it! Get away GET AWAY FROM ME!," he begged in a heavy Spanish accent, all former traces of toughness gone.

"I'll bet that's what he said when you were taking him, wasn't it?" Bakura responded flatly, motioning with a jerk of his head to Marik's semi unconscious form.

"I neva touched him man! Y-ya gotta believe me!—"

Bakura caught up to him and brought down his foot on the mans ankle, a loud snap cracking through the air. The Mexican man screamed, reaching to grab at his broken appendage. Yet he never got far; Bakura bent easily at the knee, arcing the blade through the air and swiping a bright red line across the downed mans throat. He gurgled wetly, blood spilling over the corners of his mouth. He began to seize, kicking wildly and clawing at his neck. Bakura turned from him, uncaring, unflinching, and went back to the first man he'd stabbed. He was still writhing on the ground, a slushy red pool welling around him. Bakura dropped his knife and kicked the man flat on his back. He straddled his chest, settling his hands over the mans throat. He pushed all his body weight into the balls of his hands, and listened as the man under him strangled slowly, eyes wide and staring. His legs were kicking, but blood and oxygen loss had made him weak, and it only took thirty seconds to effectively crush the mans windpipe and leave him for dead.

Bakura slowly released the man beneath him and looked up, ready for more killing. The other two men had fled. Unfortunately for them, the snow was just thick enough to leave tracks; the spirit had no intention of letting them get away, and went for his knife again. As he was standing to go after them, he heard someone call him. Through his haze, through the misty red thoughts of murder, his name came back. It didn't completely break the spell, but it stopped him. He turned slowly in place, and found Marik's eyes.

"D-don't go-" the Egyptian whispered, still laying in the snow, clothes half on, breath shallow. This was just enough to draw Bakura down from himself, to shove out the worst of the darkness possessing him. He felt an actual physical drop, and the emotion of concern and love took the opportunity to flood back in, making the whitenette shake briefly.

"Marik-" he breathed, feeling as if he was coming up from the bottom of a pool. He could breathe again, and although he didn't feel right, he could at least FEEL now. He once again abandoned the knife in his hand, and flashed to Marik's side. He knelt down over him, the crushing feeling of his still dark state lifting by increments. His trembling hands skimmed over Marik's body, his eyes darting back and forth, looking for injuries. Shadows of hatred and rage flickered through his mind like trapped birds, but the overwhelming sensation of concern quieted them.

Marik's hand reached up and took one of Bakura's, moaning lowly as he squeezed. His eyes were still shut, and he was shaking his head back and forth for 'no'. The spirit over him growled back, taking Marik's hand and putting it to his cheek, jolting as he felt how cold it was.

"Marik…" he groaned again, free hand touching the icy exposed skin of Marik's stomach, trying to come completely back into the world.

Marik didn't answer, but forced his fingers to bend, digging into Bakura's skin.

"Come back Bakura," he whispered, turning to look up at him. He was shivering in cold, in residual shocks of terror. The whitenette stiffened at the words, and then it was easy- so so so easy to slide back into himself, to banish the darkness circling within to the black corners which it had come from.

"I'm here Marik. I'm right here…" he said, the timber in his voice gone, resuming its natural, everyday key. He lowered his forehead to the blonde's, waiting as the domineering passions drained from him.

For several minutes, the two stayed motionless like this, equalizing one another, balancing out the whirl of emotions. Bakura's blind hatred and Marik's desperate need melded, cancelling one another. Finally, Marik's body shivered harshly, letting them both know it couldn't stay like this for much longer; the snow was falling heavier then before. It was building up on Marik's clothing, and soaking into both of the men's hair.

"You have to get up Marik… Are you hurt?" Bakura began first. He raised himself up, looking into the Egyptians eyes.

"I… I don't think so," he answered weakly. He shifted gingerly, testing himself before sitting up. Bakura supported him at his back, alert, waiting for his gasps of pain. Yet Marik only winced quietly, laying a hand over his exposed stomach.

"Help me?..." he whispered to Bakura, turning to look at him.

"Of- of course," the spirit answered in surprise, instantly beginning to help Marik pull his clothes back into place. With several more twitches of pain and tenderness, the two managed to button Marik back up, Bakura wrapping him firmly into his scarf.

The blonde allowed the spirit to pick him up and place him on his feet. He swayed when he took his own weight back onto his feet, but Bakura easily caught him, supporting him.

"Can you walk?" Bakura asked, disquieted, into Marik's ear. The Egyptian clung onto him, but nodded tiredly. His entire being was numb, inside and out, physical and emotional. Only the white haired man on his arm was keeping him awake right now.

"Come on Marik- I'll take you home…" Bakura said, beginning to lead his boyfriend away. Marik glanced at the bloody body of one of his captors as he past, so numb he couldn't feel anything towards it. Not hatred, anger, disgust or fear. Nothing. Nothing at all…

"Bakura I'm f-freezing," he said tonelessly, as the man named led him back onto the lit city street.

"I know you are. We'll be home soon. Just lean on me," he answered, holding Marik around the shoulder and shuffling along with him. The blonde did as he was told, eyes falling on the abandoned groceries. He strained away from Bakura, trying to lean down and get them as the two passed, but he was held back.

"Leave them- we can get more later," Bakura explained as Marik turned to him with a question in his eye. Marik didn't seem to agree, but let the spirit pull him onward. His boyfriend only stooped to grab up his phone, and kept moving as he pocketed the battered device.

"They b-broke it Bakura… y-y-you don't h-have to k-keep it," the desert native stuttered into Bakura's jacket.

"Hush- it's not completely broken," he reassured Marik, rubbing his arm protectively. Marik didn't argue, and let the other man lead him. His side bumped into Bakura's ever other step, and something in his jacket pocket poked him. Marik shivered hard once, catching his boyfriends attention.

"Can I h-have a c-cigare-ette, Bakura?..." Marik asked softly, knowing that that was what the box in Bakura's pocket was. The spirit looked at him, surprised again, silent for a moment.

"Y-yes, of course. Hold on," he responded, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk. Marik asking for a cigarette was shocking, and led Bakura to believe that the man beside him was still reeling from his experience.

With practiced skill, he held onto Marik, supporting him, and withdrew his pack single handedly. With two fingers, he pulled out two sticks and lit them simultaneously, handing one to Marik. Marik accepted it, just a bit hesitantly. He didn't smoke, but under extremely stressful conditions, he would. Aside from that, Bakura did it enough for him to be accustomed to the smoke. He inhaled deeply, throat stinging a bit from the thick cloud of cancer. He exhaled, letting his eyes shut, senses dulling further.

Bakura sucked on his cigarette, watching Marik intently.

"Are you ok to go on?" he asked gently. The bronze boy nodded, and allowed his boyfriend to lead onward.

Not more than twenty minutes later, Bakura was locking up the door, Marik standing motionlessly in the hallway behind him. He felt dead inside; useless and hollow. He gasped softly as Bakura wrapped his arms around him from his back, hugging him tightly. Marik felt himself turn slowly within the circle of his arms, and buried his face into his neck. He still wasn't feeling it yet, and it was scary; he wanted the tears, the screams of pain, so he could get it over with, to move on. Yet it was too close, the shock of it still circling around him, waiting to slam through.

"Bakura-" he murmured,

The spirit whispered back, voice rough and calming,

"You're home Marik. You're safe now…"

Marik's heart skipped, and he threw his arms around the spirit, clutching to him. Bakura was scented with smoke and his hair was damp, clinging to the open skin of Marik's face. The blonde nuzzled further into him, seeking to feel something. He heard his boyfriend heart beating in his neck, and tried to latch onto it, to focus on it enough to incite something. But again… nothing was there.

"I know I am… Bakura, I know I am," he said finally, feeling the choking despair of nothingness creeping over his heart. Bakura pulled back, gazing intently into the Egyptians eyes, suspicious. He squeezed his hands on his shoulders.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

Marik thought about it, emotionless.

"Now that I'm home… but I'm freezing… and-" his eyes flickered to Bakura's darkly stained sleeve-"you're covered in blood…" Bakura followed his gaze, and removed his arm from Marik's shoulder, tucking it behind his back.

"We'll clean up- Are you hungry? Or… do you want to sleep?" Bakura suggested, noting the very silent and reserved Marik before him.

"Um, sleep. Yeah- I'm tired," Marik responded lethargically, raising his eyes to meet the spirits. He offered a weak smile, unable to muster much more. Bakura wasn't pleased with this, wondering how he could be so calm after such an intense encounter.

"Marik, are you SURE you're ok? You're quiet," the spirit pushed, concern chewing at his thoughts. The blonde should have been hysterical, especially considering who he was normally. Yet… he seemed… as if he was on the back burner, like he had slipped into a waking coma. The violet eyed man looked at Bakura.

"Yes. I'm ok Bakura. I promise," he returned, his voice flat and not reassuring at all.

Bakura didn't respond, but moved into action once Marik began attempting the buttons on his coat. The blondes fingers were shaking, and Bakura steadied them with his own, and took over the process. He helped the man strip down, out of his socks even, until he was in nothing but his underwear.

"Leave them," Bakura instructed, leading Marik away from the pile of wet and soiled clothes. As Marik was led, he stripped off his jewelry, which he suddenly hated. He dropped them where they came off, listening as they clicked sadly on the hardwood. The spirit shepherding him brought him into their bedroom, and began handing him soft, loose clothing, which he put on numbly. Bakura let him do it, watching him astutely as he pulled back the covers and began striping down himself in preparation of sleep. Marik finished first, letting is arms fall limply to his side. He gazed without looking over Bakura's head.

The spirit saw this dead look, and his brows furrowed in worry. He held out his hand, bent over the bed, beckoning his boyfriend to come, lay down with me- I can make you feel better, don't worry, you're safe- get that look out of your eyes, I don't like it Marik, please stop it. I don't care if you cry all night, I'm here, I will be there for you, forever because I love you, stop looking at me like that, because you're NOT actually looking…

The blonde stepped forward and received Bakura's hand, slowly lowering himself into bed. The motions were awkward and stiff, and even when his boyfriend settled down in front of him and pulled the covers up, he didn't shut his eyes. He simply stared at the hollow at the base of Bakura's throat, receding farther into his mind. He couldn't discern the covers from Bakura's arms around him from the dampness of his hair.

Bakura looked over the silent Egyptians head, stroking his back as the body before him refused to relax.

"Marik…" he began.

"Yes?"

"Are you okay?"

There was a long, long pause.

"I already told you. I'm ok Bakura,"

Bakura simply sighed, seeing that talking wasn't getting Marik out of his reverie.

"Alright… If- if you need to do anything Marik, you know I'm here for you," the spirit assured. The tomb keeper didn't answer.

"… I know,"

Bakura wriggled closer, wrapping up Marik completely in his grip. He didn't know what the other man was thinking, but he knew it wasn't good. So much silence after such a terrible thing- it wasn't right. It just… felt wrong. He didn't know how to broach the subject, and didn't want to force Marik to talk about it if he didn't want to. But after Bakura's shocking regress into his old self, he was still more perceptive than normal. He wanted Marik to speak, to just pour it out. He wanted to share how glad he was that Marik was his, how much he loved him, how sorry he was about what happened, but that'd always protect him, he'd love him no matter what and he'd help him recover, please just talk to me.

Marik moved within the circle of his arms, and tried to sit up.

"Are you ok?" the spirit asked as Marik began to climb over him.

"Yeah- just wanna wash my face… I'll be right back," the man said flatly. Bakura began to get up to follow him, but the blonde turned, holding out his hand.

"Don't worry honey- I'll be fine," he assured with a little smile. The spirit lay back down, propped on an elbow, watching as Marik left. Honey… The smile he'd given Bakura hadn't reached his eyes.

Marik entered the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Without thought, he clicked the lock, sealing himself in. He only flicked on one light, and braced himself over the sink, head down. For a long time, he stayed like that, unthinking, brain not processing. He could only hear the word 'Bakura' in the back of his consciousness. It beat with his heart, and kept him from slipping off into the black waiting just below the surface.

He lifted his gaze to stare at himself in the mirror. He observed his face with the scientific objectivity of a stranger. He saw his eyes, half lidded and surrounded by deep circles embedded in smooth, tanned skin. His makeup had run, leaving faint streaks down his cheeks. His mouth was pretty, a cupids bow, set up now with a gentle frown. He didn't see the attractiveness- couldn't see why anyone would want to rape him, there was nothing desirable about him. His hair was a mess, drying in every which way, tangled in places that he'd never allow under normal circumstances. Right then however, he could've cared less. The shirt Bakura had handed him was too big, and hung from his frame, dipping low at his throat around the collar. There, right above his collar bone was an ugly purple bruise.

Marik's mind hooked into this with vicious enthusiasm. It sent such a violent shock through his body that the boy doubled over, clutching his stomach. He thought for a dizzying moment that he was going to vomit, but nothing came up. After several minutes of deep, shaking breaths, he straightened back up, mouth hanging open. He moaned quietly in despair to himself, looking once again at his sad reflection.

"I hate you. All you do is make misery for yourself. If Bakura hadn't come they would've raped you- killed you-" he whispered venomously to himself. He didn't see his own mouth move.

"-they would've killed you, you can't defend yourself, you've never been able to. Father was right to keep you underground. You're weak and pathetic, and Bakura deserves better than you- God you're fucking PATHETIC, you can't get over your childhood, you let people grab you, you can't do anything right-" he continued, snarling darkly to his reflection. His voice was jagged and strained. Bubbling up in him was an intense hatred of himself, the first emotion he'd been able to feel since that vivid wave of hope he'd received upon seeing Bakura, before passing out.

"Worthless, you're worthless-" he croaked, lips drawing back in a sneer. Nothing had ever hurt as much as the combination of self loathing and despair he now felt. He remembered the hands on him, both from when he was a child and from just a scant hour before. He couldn't stop, he couldn't rip his mind away from the spiral it was now descending into. He was beginning to lose the light, the hope that was still available to him. He was being consumed from within his own mind. He had been so prepared for death, so committed to letting himself be sucked away that he hadn't returned yet. Death had descended down to kiss him, and he'd offered himself up willingly. The trauma of what had just happened was shunting his thoughts, keeping him in a deepening rut. He just hadn't come to terms with the reality of the situation; he was going to be ok, he didn't need to surrender to Death. Coupled with his own self image, it was deadly.

With jerking movements, Marik straightened up, back rigid. He yanked open the mirror fronted medicine cabinet before him and reached for the sleeping aids in the back. He ripped off the top, and poured several into his hand. And then several more. And still more…

He stared angrily at the handful of pills, heart pumping at the thought of what he was about to do.

"Worthless," he assured himself, and tipped his cupped hand back, gagging as the multitude of pills fought their way down his throat.

_**Note: Hope you enjoyed. I had fun with this one. Are you ready for the next part? 8DD?!?!?!?!?!?**_


	3. Confession

_**And now, the heartstopping conclusion of 90210- I mean, what? Yep, OOCness, little bit, coming attchya. DEAL WITH IT. **_

Bakura had been lying stiffly in bed for almost 20 minutes. He was staring up at the ceiling, doubt clouding his thoughts. Marik had been gone for a long time… The spirit wasn't sure it should take this long, but also thought perhaps Marik was coping in private. He wrestled with the idea of getting up and checking on him, unsure of the state in which he'd find the Egyptian, not wanting to upset him further. He tried to trace patterns in the ceiling to distract himself, to stop the memories of the past hour from replaying. But they wouldn't, and no matter how intricate the pattern in the ceiling, it couldn't dull him.

Finally, he could take it no more. The Thief King got up, pulling his jeans back on. If Marik was in tears or throwing things in anger, it didn't matter; he'd be there, he'd take the tumble with him. He crossed the living room/kitchen, and approached the bathroom hesitantly, skirting Marik's damp clothes from earlier. Utilizing his briefly returned skills from his past life, he pressed his ear to the door silently, listening for crying, panting or anything to warn him. When nothing reached him, he took the handle gently in his hand, and tried to turn it. He was slightly perplexed when the knob didn't yield to him, clicking in refusal.

"Marik?" Bakura tried gently.

"… Marik, please open the door… Let me in," he asked softly. He pressed his ear to the door again, waiting for the rustling of fabric, for the padding of feet over tile. Again, he was met with silence.

He's been gone for twenty minutes, his mind reminded him. Twenty minutes to wash his face?... Twenty minutes of a break down maybe?...

Bakura felt his senses spike again. No. No, this wasn't right.

"Marik. Open the door. Come on, I know you're in here. Please open the door," the spirit commanded, now becoming uneasy to the point of panic. He pulled on the door handle harder, willing it to open.

Silence.

"MARIK!" Bakura yelled, banging on the wood. He paused, holding his breath to listen for a response. Once more, there was nothing but the background hum of their heater kicking on.

"MARIK! MARIK! OPEN THE DOOR!" Bakura yelled, tripping out of his frozen position. He yanked at the door handle, yelling in frustration and desperation. His adrenaline flooded him for the second time that day, and he back away from the door, bracing himself against the nearest wall. He kicked the door once, with bone shattering force. The wood around the knob shattered, but didn't give. With another shout and kick from the spirit, the door flew back, banging against the wall.

Bakura's breath was heaving in his chest as he stumbled forward, looking for Marik. He was so high up in his adrenaline fueled surge that at first, he didn't register that the blonde was lying on the floor. His wide eyes finally fell upon him, and all breathing stopped.

He swooped into the bathroom, falling to his knees beside Marik, grabbing his shoulders. He groaned in anguish as Marik's head lolled back, unresponsive.

"Marik- oh, fuck, Marik, what did you do!? Wake up, WAKE UP!" Bakura screamed into his face, shaking him. The blonde didn't move, but a small stunted moan came up from his throat. Bakura was in blind panic, whipping around to look for what could've caused this. His sharp eyes swept the counter, and he saw the sleeping aids bottle, uncapped. It looked back at the spirit with the audacity of a kamikaze, label turned right toward him.

"Oh, no. No- no," Bakura said, heart slamming away inside his ribs. He turned back to the unconscious boy in his arms, and shook his violently again.

"MARIK!" he screamed. The man didn't move.

Bakura slipped into a solid haze, shifting into a rationalist gear that he usually employed when attending class. He pulled Marik up, and slumped him against the front lip of the bath tub. He lifted Marik's head and forced his mouth open. He shoved his middle finger as far back into the blondes throat as he could, almost touching the back. All that happened was a choking noise, but nothing more.

A horribly vile thought slashed through Bakura's mind as he tried to push his fingers in farther; Marik didn't HAVE a gag reflex…Because of Bakura.

"Oh- no- no no no," the spirit denied.

Because of his own wants, because of his selfish desires, the only person he ever loved was going to die. Because of his rampant sexual appetite, Marik wasn't going to be able to return the pills he took, and Bakura would be holding a dead man in less than ten minutes. The very concept of Marik being dead was unimaginable, beyond inconceivable and spoke to the deepest corner of Bakura's fears.

"Marik, you better not go- I'll fucking chase you down if you do- WAKE UP, COME ON MARIK, STAY WITH ME!" he yelled, pulling his fingers out. He reached for the counter, feeling for anything longer then his finger. He found his tooth brush, and pulled it to himself. With as much delicacy as could be afforded, he pushed the handle down Marik's throat, at least assured by Marik's slow breathing. He made the toothbrush jab the back of the blondes throat, looking down into his mouth as he held his head back.

"Come on Marik," Bakura begged, not knowing that tears were beginning to well in his own eyes.

Suddenly, the Egyptian made a disgusting choking noise, and he tried to fold over on himself. Bakura withdrew the tooth brush, not letting it go. He pulled Marik up as the man heaved again, resting him over the bathtub. Bakura pulled the Egyptians hair back, keeping it away from his mouth as he threw up the deadly overdose. Marik sucked in deep breath after deep breath, retching horrendously as he expelled his stomachs contents. Bakura rested his face against Marik's back, waiting for it to end. Finally, Marik's retching turned into a coughing fit, and the spirit at his back let go of his hair, and looked him in the face. The blonde was still panting, eyes closed, but a tiny bit more cognoscente. He moaned in pain, forehead dropping to rest on the edge of the shower. Bakura held him tightly, tucking Marik's head under his chin. He glanced down into the basin of the shower, and shivered with revulsion and horror. His boyfriend obviously hadn't eaten much that day, because there was nothing in there but a thin yellow bile, dotted with bright blue pills. Fifteen of them…

"Marik, stay with me," the spirit begged quietly, beginning to rock back and forth slowly. Marik didn't respond, but coughed again. Bakura clung to him, burying his face in the blondes hair.

"Please Marik, don't go. Don't you dare leave me here- I'll do anything for you, anything at all, but I won't let you die, I won't let you leave me. Please Marik, I-I-" he began. He wanted to say it, had to say it- he didn't care if it made his throat bleed, but fuck everything, he would tell him. He didn't understand why, but the corners of his eyes were hot; he was crying. He just never did it, so his mind had a hard time registering the foreign sensation.

"I love you Marik. I- fuck- I-I love you so much-" the spirit confessed, pulling Marik tighter into his chest, pushing up on his knees to hold him better.

"I've never loved anyone, ever- and never the way I love you. Don't you fucking leave me now. I can't do anything without you anymore, you fucking son of a bitch, don't you fucking leave me, I love you, can you hear me? Marik, come back-- I love you-" Bakura said, errant tears streaking his cheeks and making his heart squeeze through its unsteady beating.

"Don't you fucking leave me," he begged into the blondes ear-

"Don't you dare…"

He continued to sway with the Marik in his lap, silently letting millennia's worth of locked up love spill out of him. He breathed evenly into his lovers neck, willingly away desperation and hopelessness, refusing to let it get the better of them.

"Please come back, Marik, I-I swear to God, I love you…" Bakura moaned, muscles aching from holding up the Egyptian. He refused to let go however, picking suffering over the alternative; nothingness.

From beneath his grasp, Marik made a small sound. Just a little groan, just a tiny indication he was alive. Bakura froze, cemented into place.

"Marik?" he whispered, hope lighting up his features and voice.

The boy in question answered with a breathy moan, stirring for the first time in the spirits arms.

"Marik!?" Bakura asked feverishly again, pulling him away and holding his shoulders, to peer into his face. The tomb keeper sighed deeply, and lifted his head just a fraction, not completely in control of his motor functions yet. He slumped a bit to the side, and when his eyes opened, they were unfocused and bleary. He tried to make another sound, perhaps talk, but nothing understandable came out. He shifted his gaze and met Bakura's, still seemingly confused. His brows knitted together, and he opened his mouth, this time words forming.

"Bakura?..." he rasped.

The spirit nodded vigorously, waiting expectantly, ready to leap up and get anything the blonde should ask for. Then Marik didn't say anything, instead looking around slowly, dazedly.

"W-why are we in the bathroom?..." he asked quietly, settling his eyes back onto the whitenette. He was still too deep inside of his fog to notice the tears wetting his cheeks. Bakura's throat closed, and it clicked when he tried to speak.

"You… you don't remember?" he braved, painfully bright images of the past ten minutes flashing in his mind.

"Not really… I-I remember…" the blonde started, his eyes and features suddenly animating.

"I remember you saving me…" he got out, before swollen tears began to form in his eyes. Bakura's heart tore at the sight.

"You don't remember—taking pills?" Bakura pressed, trying to keep his pain to himself. Marik stared, wide eyed.

"Pills? W-what?" he asked. Then he looked around again, a bit more thoroughly. He caught sight of the bright blue pellets in the bottom of the tub, and his already wide eyes shot open more. The tears spilt over the edges freely, and his hand flew up to his mouth. He turned back to Bakura, still kneeling before him. He could remember very little, but just enough got through to horrify him.

"Oh G-God Bakura, I- I didn't mean it, oh my God, I didn't- I was just so- they were going to rape me a-a-and, if you hadn't come- I'm just so usless—I d-d-didn't mean it!" the blonde began, shaking his head fervently before bursting into tears. He threw himself into Bakura's arms, sobbing. The man caught him, wrapping him up firmly, shushing him while he continued to fight his own tears. Here it was, the emotions that should've been there from the start, the release that would help them both recover. Marik just needed to overdose to get to it.

"Hush Marik… it's ok, I've got you… I got you…" the spirit said, stroking Marik's hair while again rocking them.

"Oh Bakura, I'm so sorry, I-I didn't mean it. I was just trying to- I-I— You saved me, oh God, twice, Bakura, Bakura…" the blonde moaned into the man's chest. The spirit held him firm, and for several minutes Marik cried against him, shaking.

"You tried to leave me Marik… but I couldn't let you do that. Not now, not anymore. Not when I love you this much," Bakura whispered gently, knowing he'd just said it, aloud, and Marik wasn't dying of too many sleep aids this time. Marik sniffed hard, and pulled himself away, eyes wide and accusatory. He stared hard at the whitenette, swiping away tears with the back of his hand without looking.

"What did you say?" he asked, trying to sound put together. It wasn't working so well- his eyes were blood shot and the front of his shirt was wet with salty tears. Bakura didn't flinch under the look, and instead took Marik's face between his hands. He drew out a purposeful silence, before saying,

"I love you, Marik Ishtar, and have for some time. I love you more then I know how to say, more then there are languages to say it in. Nothing you try to tell me will change my mind, and I will not let you go. I am here for you, because of you, and you should know why- I love you," he ended simply, leveling his dark eyes with violet ones.

Marik sniffed again, not moving or responding. He was trying to absorb it all, the insanity of the entire day, and to now cope with this stunningly wonderful confession. Slowly, he crumbled, and broke down completely again. He pushed himself back into Bakura's arms, hugging him harder then he knew was comfortable. He didn't care- he wanted to feel it, to feel alive and good again. He wasn't useless; Bakura had just told him that. He was loved; Bakura had just told him that. He had a future to look forward to; Bakura had just told him that. It hurt in such a lovely way that for a long minute, the blonde was content to just be held, silently crying, the sobs forcing his body to convulse every now and then. The spirit anchored him in place, allowing him to get it out.

"I love you too," he managed in a hoarse whisper after some time.

"I know you do," Bakura smiled.

"So much, Bakura. So fucking much," the blonde whimpered, letting his body relax, pulling back. He met Bakura's eyes and smiled back weakly, feeling much more whole then before. He started a bit when he noticed the trail of tears on the spirits face. Reaching out, he touched them unbelievingly, gingerly tracing them down.

"Y-you're crying…" he stated, dumbfounded. Bakura also looked surprised, touching his own face. He looked down at his damp finger tips. Then he smiled, breaking into a low laugh.

"You made me do it," he said, looking back to him. Marik shook his head.

"I'm sorry Bakura-" he began. But the spirit hushed him with a finger over his lips.

"Don't,"

Marik nodded understandingly. He then tried to push himself up, but sunk back to the floor, utterly spent from everything. He sighed, his hands in his lap.

"I guess I'll be sleeping here…" he mused, glancing at Bakura. The spirit snorted gently.

"I've got you," he assured. He stood, somewhat shaky himself, and then reached out for Marik. The blonde accepted his arms and gasped as he was pulled upward. He was dizzy beyond belief, aching and sore in every bone and muscle. He held onto Bakura for a minute, regaining his equilibrium before attempting to walk on his own. Thankfully, Bakura didn't leave his side, helping him get the sink. Marik braced himself once again on the sink counter, feeling the déjà vu hit him. He shuddered at the sight of the uncapped pills beside him. Bakura caught the movement and brushed the bottle into his hand, throwing them away. Marik gave him his most apologetic look before turning the faucets on.

"I'm really washing my face this time… I promise," he tried lamely, his normally sarcastic self trying to take over again. Bakura growled beside him.

"I'm coming with you if you ever tell me that again," the spirit assured evenly. Marik smiled as he filled his cupped hands with cold water. After several splashes, he washed the stinging taste of vomit out of mouth. The sought out his mouthwash by feel, and mumbled thanks when he felt Bakura hand it to him. He swigged back a tiny amount, and after a few burning seconds spit it out. As he swallowed, he realized his throat hurt, quiet badly. He rubbed it as he turned to find a towel. Again, Bakura handed it to him.

"Why does my throat hurt?..." he asked quietly, face dried. Bakura stared, lip quirking; he didn't want to answer.

"I had to force a tooth brush down it to make you throw up," he answered, expression pained. Marik rang the towel in his hands.

"Bakura- honestly… it was just too much-" he looked up at the spirit, tears threatening but finding their supply mostly exhausted- "between those men… you don't understand… when they grabbed me, I-I felt like I was THERE again… like it was happening all over. It was too much… I don't know Bakura, I just- don't know what happened. I think I died a little…-"

Bakura was watching him, face still pained.

"You had a waking night terror," he said, articulating exactly what Marik was thinking. The man nodded.

"Yes… if you hadn't come, Bakura… if you hadn't-" he started.

Bakura closed the distance between them, again hugging Marik tightly.

"They didn't. And it's over now, Marik. I've got you, I'm here," he said, ending the conversation. Marik was content to be assured, although he could feel future tears welling over this. He shook it off, concentrating instead on the present.

"I've heard you say you love me, seen you cry and come back from the dead, all in one night. I couldn't possibly love you more, Bakura…. Thank you," he said through a smile, hoping to lighten the mood. Bakura drew back. He looked Marik over tenderly, brushing back his bangs delicately with one hand.

"You better not try that again either," the spirit said lowly, eyes locking onto Marik's.

"I was out of my head Bakura… And not that I've ever doubted you… but now that I know… I couldn't. You are my everything… honest," the blonde affirmed, taking Bakura's hand into his. Before the white haired man could answer, he pulled himself up with the last bit of his waning strength and kissed him. Bakura answered by opening his mouth, mingling their tongues briefly.

"Come to bed," the spirit commanded after they pulled apart, noting the slight shakes in Marik's hand. The other nodded silently, smiling.

Once they were wrapped up safely in bed, front to back, Marik could breathe easy again. He didn't feel hollow or unattached; he felt right and whole. He was ashamed of what he had done, but the overwhelming confession that had sprung from the situation almost made it pale into the background. Bakura, also relaxing into sleep, felt similarly, although he was proud that he'd finally said it, to have meant it so resoundingly.

"I love you Marik," he said, trying out the taste of the words again. Marik pushed back against the spirit more.

"I love you too…" he whispered.

Silence.

"I'm sorry it took so long for me to say it…"

"I'm not. I told you I would wait"

"I'm lucky you're so patient"

"If you want to look at it that way"

A quiet minute passed.

"Marik-"

"Hm?..."

"Don't you ever try to leave me again"

Marik's heart fluttered.

"Never. Promise…"

_**Note: Moral of story: keep a toothbrush on hand in case your boy friend with no gag reflex tries to commit suicide by taking too many sleeping pills. 8DD**_

_** Alrighty! Hope you liked- lemme know what you think. And again, no flames. It's childish and I really have no time for it. Go kick a kindergardener if you really need to make yourself feel better then everyone else. Anyway-- super love love, till next time.**_


	4. Dear YChan

_**Dear Y-Chan,**_

_**Thank you for your review. However, I severely dislike that you commented anonymously, and am even more upset with myself for not turning off anonymous comments. Therefore, I will respond to you here in hopes of getting into contact with you in another way. And to give myself a chance to respond properly, because I have several problems with the way you critiqued me. (Just in case; I have given you readers the entirety of Y-Chan's review, and my responses are in italics.)**_

Don't take this the wrong way, I'm notorious for leaving completely honest  
reviews chapter by chapter (assuming it'll let me). _**I am okay with honest reviews!**_ I'm also an old-school fan  
and back in my day it was common that the spirit of the sennen ring be called  
Bakura, the body of Ryou Bakura was Ryou, Malik Ishtar is Malik, and his alter  
ego is Marik or in some very rare cases Yami Malik. So if I reference those  
names at any time during my reviews, that's why. _**Also fine so long as you understand I do not.**_

What I didn't like-Repetition. Particularly the repetition of the "s*x will  
warm you up" theme. It worked on the phone call because it followed a very  
natural train of thought a phone conversation might have between lovers..but  
you reference in over and over in the body of the story as well as it got a  
little old. _**I am curious about this statement... Considering the two never have sex through the story, and the phone call is much more of a plot instrument relating to Marik's attempted rape, I don't see the correlation. But I am sorry- sometimes I get caught up in my own enthusiasm.**_

Consistency was also a bit of a problem. Ryou Bakura is British so HE would  
have the programed French-hatred within him, the spirit of the sennen ring  
would not (since he's Egyptian). _**Although I understand this method of thinking, I don't see why my version is unbelievable, or even relevant to be critiqued. If Bakura has spent his entire 'new world' existence in Ryou, sharing his body, mind and literally soul, then he would indeed pick up many of his habits, beliefs and morals, even if he doesn't always choose to display them. If what you're saying is true, Bakura would have no accent either. If Yami and Yugi could share, enter and explore one another soul rooms, why couldn't other yamis as well?**_ Also, if its _**(Wrong 'its'. You mean 'it's', for 'it is')**_snowing its likely below  
freezing, there's no reason why there'd be puddles in the streets (and you  
reference these puddles numerous times). _**This is just silly! I am beyond baffled. I live in a city which receives upwards of 4 feet of snow a year, and there are INDEED puddles. Lots. And Lots. Of puddles. Which soak through my shoes… I'm not bitter, lol. Unless it is astoundingly below freezing, say, 12 or 5 degrees, snow is turned into slush and puddles by human traffic and automobile traffic. Not to mention salt thrown onto walkways to MELT it, and the fact that asphalt retains heat much better than air, there are almost guaranteed to be puddles in cities. Please don't assume things as well as insult me on what I do and do not know.**_That aside I have mixed feelings on  
bringing up Malik's past. I think it was a brilliant reference to compare  
Malik's past to the rape scene. I was worried you were going to go very AU  
with this (despite references to Y. Bakura's ancient past) _**A small note on this as well, but it's generally accepted (and I enjoy writing) that Bakura, Ryou's yami, is a very different person from Akeiffa, or Thief King Bakura. Although they share a past, they in all reality went about life very, very differently (growing up, where they lived, who was present in their worlds). Therefore, they have separate, distinct personalities from one another.**_but when you  
brought up Malik's past you won me over. _**Thank you!**_ However, you can't bring up Malik's  
past and not bring up his alter ego. _**Sure can. Watch me.**_ I'm sure this story is meant to take  
place sometime after Battle City (since you are leaving Y. Malik out of this)  
but I still don't quite find it appropriate to make this reference while  
leaving out a crucial result of what happened. _**I suppose I didn't make it clear enough. I write Marik, the original Ishtar, as a separate entity from Malik, the manifestation born of Marik's hatred. They do not inhabit one body any longer, indeed NO connections (physically or emotionally), and in the 'Fanfiction Universe' I like to write in, Marik hates his darker self and wants to move on with his life. Malik has nothing to do with this fic at all, and it is purposeful. I'm sorry you write the two Ishtar boys differently.**_I was anticipating Bakura would  
either have never gotten that phone call or it ended before the rape and he'd  
notice Malik was missing-or since you brought up Malik's past I was really  
hoping Bakura would come to find the rapists dead at Y. Malik's hand and  
Bakura then would have to find a way to stifle the alter ego to bring Malik  
back out (which would have been the set up for a great premise throughout the  
story). _**I'm sorry I didn't write the fic the way you would have?... I am absolutely not sure what this has to do with reviewing my fic, in any positive manner whatsoever.**_I've not read past the first chapter so I can't assume the direction  
you're trying to go; I'm just speaking from my perspective. _**…If you aren't going to read the whole thing, why leave a critique? Don't you want to see how the whole story played out before you decide that my plot wasn't good enough, or that not enough of what YOU wanted to see happen, happened?...**_

Overall I think you tried too hard. _**That's… nice? I am… sorry you feel that way? Completely irrelevant to any critique and does not help me improve, nor is it really called for. I didn't write this for anyone but myself and my girlfriend. I think YOU tried too hard reviewing this…**_ This is VERY common in writing  
fanfiction..however, it's certainly better than not trying hard enough. It was  
refreshing, I loved listening to your metaphors and analogies. _**The backhanded compliment that I still sort of appreciate! No seriously- thank you. **___I would like to  
see a little more character development. _**You're not allowed to ask for that unless you read the ENTIRE fic. I'm sorry I couldn't put it all into the first chapter. I guess I'll try harder- … but not too hard**__._ It can be so easy to muddle the  
personalities of Malik and Bakura just because they are very similar in terms  
of being stereotypical bad-guys in cannon. _**Yes.**_ But again, overall you add a fresh  
take on a story beginning, you get right to the point, you have very creative  
writing skills..and I'm impressed (the internet is making a new generation  
stupid and despite 4 years in college I can't say I can write worth beans  
anymore XD). You are immensely talented and I really hope to see more from you  
both in this story and in future. You will be an author I want to watch! _**Thank you very much. That means a lot, considering this is Fanfiction. **__  
_  
Y-chan (not to be confused with the one of , I have no idea who  
that is) _**Y-Chan, please leave me an email so we can speak further? If you want, that is. **_

_**No more anonymous comments, so I don't ever have to do this again.**_


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